


Fire and Icing

by quinndk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bakery, Baking, Cooking, Drama, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Firefighters, Food, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Male Character of Color, Male Slash, Opposites Attract, POV Male Character, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinndk/pseuds/quinndk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cocky firefighter Logan O'Donoghue is a total hothead. And that’s precisely why Aiden Kashima, a young culinary student and aspiring pastry chef, can’t stand him. But after a devastating blaze destroys his apartment and leaves him with nowhere to go, Aiden is forced to temporarily move into Logan’s fire station. </p><p>As tension grows into lust, and lust becomes a red-hot romance, both men discover they might not be such a bad pair after all… if they can ever get over their differences. Aiden may have a talent for baking sweets, but can he tame the daredevil in Logan? As they'll both soon learn, love doesn't come with a recipe. [Slash M/M]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simmer to a Boil

 

 

 _Tuesday, May 24. 4:30 am_.

I really hate it when books begin with the main character waking up.

It's like, can't the author think of a less cliche way to introduce their story? Reading about someone's morning routine is as interesting as baking plain shortbread (trust me, I've made enough this semester to feed all of Canada. Two Canadas, actually). So I'm a little embarrassed that this particular chapter of this particular story in my particular life started with me, well... waking up.

In my defense? I woke up because my apartment was on fire.

Suck on that.

It took a moment after I opened my eyes to realize that I was not actually driving a car made of french buttercream down a chocolate chip cookie road. No, I was curled on my bed under a blanket of recipe study sheets, my face mashed into the open pages of my  _Pastry and Related Theory_  textbook, my right hand still clutching my much-abused pen with a rictus grip. The building's fire alarm shrieked repeatedly as my room filled with something that looked and smelled suspiciously like smoke.

No wonder I woke up with a headache.

I dashed from my bed over to my roommate Eddie's bedroom, finding nothing but crumpled sheets on an abandoned mattress.

I know this is bad, but I actually grabbed my backpack before getting the hell out of my apartment. The fire safety instructor who visited my fourth grade class to nag at us about proper evacuation procedures would have been appalled. I know! You're supposed to drop everything and just  _go_. But my backpack already had my laptop, phone charger, and wallet nestled safely inside. Just try telling a panicked millennial to leave an essential kit like that behind. They will fight you. (After downloading an app that'll tell them how, first.)

So picture me half-awake in my high school gym t-shirt and plaid pajama pants - barefoot, naturally - negotiating down the treacherously flimsy fire escape in total darkness. For seven whole flights. Even on my most coordinated days I tend to navigate spaces with the grace of a confused, drunken clown. I bumped into a  _lot_  of jagged corners as I stumbled down the steps. Something that sounded like fabric ripping almost made me pause but the thundering wail of an approaching fire engine pushed me to keep going.

It wasn't until I reached the street beside a crowd of my nervous, pajama-clad neighbors that I understood the full extent of what was happening. The faint, wispy smoke I woke up to was now gushing from the building's open windows in thick, black geysers. A frightening orange glow emanated from the floor right below mine. It didn't take long for the blaze to spread, licking up walls and blackening ceilings. Fire consumed my apartment's windows next, as swift as it was unstoppable.

Fuck. I was lucky I got out when I did.

I found Eddie by the curb across the street, staring dumbly at the disaster movie unfolding before him. He had his favorite Portland Knights shirt on. Weird, how popular that hockey team became here in Toronto these past couple of months.

"What the hell, man, you got out before waking me up?" I was cranky. You would have been too.

"I didn't think you were home," Eddie yawned. "Thought you were out studying or whatever."

I checked the time on my phone. "You thought I was out studying meringue whipping techniques at 3 a.m.?"

"Hey, listen bud, we've all been wrong before."

I said silent a thank you at the sky for the blessing in disguise this fire represented. I would never again have to come home to Eddie sitting on the floor in his boxers eating the pear ginger custard tart I made for class with his bare hands, or listen to him fuck his overly-enthusiastic girlfriend, who had the bedroom manner of a pterodactyl. (I showed my female friends a picture of Eddie once. "She's faking it," they said immediately.)

The approaching fire engine parked beside us. By the way, if you've never seen one up close? It's god damn huge. Like a rectangular metal dinosaur painted red.

A handful of men in Toronto's signature firefighter uniforms and helmets spilled out of the vehicle and got to work. I closed my eyes and quietly recited the recipe for Gâteau Basque. If my apartment wasn't capable of being saved, I didn't want to see it put out of its misery.

_3 and a quarter cups of all purpose flour. 1 and a half tablespoons of baking powder._

I heard deep, authoritative voices barking orders followed by the metal squeal of a fire hydrant being wrenched open.

_2 sticks of room temperature butter. A generous pinch of salt._

Clanking sounds of what I assumed was a hose being fitted over the hydrant's seal.

_2 cups of sugar. 3 large egg yolks. Half a teaspoon of pure lemon oil._

I tried to focus on the golden brown top of a finished Gâteau Basque. I remembered the first one I had in class - my lips trembling and eager, my fork tentatively breaking the flaky surface to reveal plump, brandied cherries nestled in a thick pond of velvety pastry cream. Mmm.

_1 cup of almond flour. 2 and a quarter cups of milk. 1 vanilla bean, split flat with the seeds scraped._

The hydrant's sudden eruption of water startled me out of my thoughts and forced my eyes open. Two firefighters supported the engine hose as it gushed a massive volley of water at the burning building. My fellow neighbors and I watched with a grim combination of awe and horror.

A small explosion on the fifth floor made someone in the crowd scream. People scattered, and for a moment I couldn't understand why, until I saw a huge chunk of flaming debris dislodge from the building and shoot towards the street like a meteorite.

I faintly heard Eddie's disappearing voice. "DUDE! RuuUUUUUN!"

My feet froze to the ground, my mouth went dry. I couldn't move and no, I couldn't explain it if I tried. My mind was screaming at me to get the hell out of dodge. But my body was throwing some kind of kindergarten tantrum and refused to cooperate. That's when... that's when...

 _Sigh_.

Okay.

This is what you all came to read, right? You sure as hell aren't poring over these words to find out if I passed my dessert menu management quiz. You want to know how Logan O'Donoghue came into my life.

Or rather, how he  _tackled_  his way into my life...

A figure appeared from the fire engine and ran toward me with the ferocity and focus of a quarterback. He was about as big as one, too, with the broadest shoulders and tall, thick legs. His bulky firefighter uniform obscured most of his other features and honestly, it all happened so god damn  _fast_  he could have looked like Charlize Theron for all I knew.

"Get DOWN!" the man called with a rough, deep voice. His gloved hands wrapped around my arms and pulled me to the ground as the debris sailed an inch - I swear to god,  _an inch_  - over our heads. The broken chunk of fiery bricks and plaster smashed to pieces on the cement road mere feet away.

If you've ever breathed so hard it felt like your heart was going to erupt out of your throat, I empathize. My very first near-death experience wasn't as fun as they made it look in the movies. I was trembling so hard, in fact, I almost didn't realize I was awkwardly pinned to the ground beneath a uniformed man.

He removed his helmet and looked straight down at me. The directness and intensity of his grey eyes stole what little oxygen I had in my lungs. Those eyes were situated on a chiseled face with a solid jaw and a week's worth of dark stubble, which matched the thick head of brown hair matted down from his helmet. A scar creased his left eyebrow and his tanned skin showed signs of sun damage which lent him an odd, roguish quality. This was a guy who wasn't afraid of the outdoors. Handsome, undoubtedly, yet his face had character. Not quite the leading man - more like the leading man's stunt double.

And then he had to go and ruin everything by speaking.

"Gotta say, my boy, you'd be wreckage if I hadn't forced your ass to move."

My eyebrows pinched together. "Excuse me?" Did he just call me  _boy_?

The man pushed off me and got to his feet. He offered me a hand but I rose to stand without it, frowning at my soiled sleeping clothes.

"Thanks," I said, ignoring his earlier words. "You saved my life."

"Don't mention it." His voice matched his appearance, all macho and deep. But beneath it, a sort of... playfulness. It was hard to describe. He had a slight Irish accent that was present but not strong.

"Really. I would've been a smear on the sidewalk."

A new expression shifted his rugged features - a wicked smile. "Well if you're that grateful, why don't I get a hug and a kiss, too?"

Heat ping-ponged through my body. I didn't know whether to be amused or offended. Weren't firefighters supposed to be professional?

"Leave him alone, Logan." Another firefighter with an EMT badge and a medical kit jogged up to us. He pushed that man - that  _Logan_  - aside and spoke directly to me, making sure I was okay and uninjured. He invited me to the fire engine to check my vitals and I agreed, grateful for the distraction.

"No one checks vitals better than I do," Logan offered, his voice a low simmer.

"O'Donoghue," the EMT warned. Hmm. Last name? The Irish accent suddenly made sense.

Hearing the seriousness in his voice, Logan nodded and his smile vanished. He doubled back to his fellow fighters to help with crowd control.

"What's his deal?" I muttered to the EMT as we settled onto the back bumper of the engine.

"Don't mind O'Donoghue. Hits on everyone with a hearbeat. He should really be watching himself, chief says he'll get a suspension if he's caught doing it out on a call."

Hits on everyone with a heartbeat? I was being  _hit on_? The heat that had taken over my body simmered into anger.

Unbelievable. I've just lost my apartment and possibly all of my belongings, but thanks bud! It's nice to know you wouldn't kick me out of bed! Urgh. Maybe firefighter training should include drills on how to make a good first impression.

As the EMT took my pulse rate, I watched Logan out of the corner of my eye. He moved with the uncomplicated confidence of a star athlete and had the machismo of one, too. I briefly wondered what it felt like to have that ease of being. While I wouldn't consider myself short at 5-foot-10, I am on the scrawny side, and rather young looking for my wise old age of 26 ("You're half-Asian. You're gonna look like a teenager until you hit 50," I'm told. Often). With my boyish appearance and total lack of coordination even when sober, I've often struggled to be taken seriously. Whoever this Logan was, he didn't seem like the type who ever had to struggle or prove anything.

After confirming that my respiration rate and everything else was normal, the EMT dismissed me. I walked back into the crowd and followed their glances up to the blackened brick exterior of what I used to call home. The fire had been tamed but it was a scorched husk of a building now. Nothing I'd call liveable.

My heavy shoulders fell as I went down a mental list of everyone I knew who wouldn't kill me for waking them up at 3 a.m. to let me crash at their place. My parents were a no go as they live in Vancouver. It was hard enough for them to let their only son travel all the way to Toronto to follow his dreams of graduating culinary school and maybe - hopefully - one day owning a cupcake bakery. They're inclined to worry, so I didn't think telling them I was now technically homeless would have been very productive. What could they even do about it?

I scrolled down the list of contacts in my phone and when I looked up again, Logan was standing in front of me. I think I actually managed to yelp, which is not a pleasant thing to hear come out of your own mouth.

"Hey. Wanted to apologize," Logan said. The soot smearing his face only highlighted the silver of his fierce eyes. "You were in a state of shock and I was being, you know. Inappropriate."

Vindication made me stand a little taller. "I appreciate you saying that."

Logan leaned in closer, halving the distance between us. His rugged scent made the thin hairs on the nape of my neck stand at attention. The only time men ever stood this close was to kiss me goodnight.

"And I just wanted to tell you," he whispered, his breath hot on my ear. I swear if his lips were any nearer I'd have been able to feel his stubble against my neck. "I think you've lost the back of your PJs."

"What are you talking about?" I frowned and reached over to the seat of my pajama pants, feeling only the thin cotton of my underwear. Exposed for the whole world to see.

Shit! That sound of ripping fabric on the fire escape. That was me.

My face went as red as the fire engine.

That grin returned to Logan's face. "Don't move, my boy. I got you." He quickly shucked off his blocky uniform jacket. Beneath, he wore a thinner one - a rain jacket with reflector stripes and the Toronto Fire Department logo on it. Logan removed it and, uh...

 _Sigh_. Again.

Although I could tell that Logan had a pretty good physique even with all that unwieldy protection on him, I still wasn't prepared for how he looked in a simple navy blue t-shirt. His broad shoulders matched his broader chest and the shirt's material strained pleasantly over the twin curves of his pecs. His Captain America arms were strong, solid, and furry with dark hair. As Logan handed me the rain jacket, his t-shirt rode up on his stomach ever so slightly, teasing a glimpse of his flat, rippled stomach and the treasure trail that led below his belt.

Now, let me get this out of the way. I'm not the type of gay dude who turns into butter the moment he's confronted with a man in uniform. My dating habits skew towards more artistic, sensitive men. Writers, singers, musicians - guys who really couldn't be bothered with the gym. The man standing before me was... an exception. Not the rule. Okay?

I swallowed hard and accepted the jacket. I wrapped it around me and tried very hard to ignore that it was still warm with Logan's body heat. He watched me very carefully as he zipped himself back into his protective coat. I knew he could sense my awkwardness.

"Thanks," I said for the second time that night.

"Don't mention it." He was also a repeat offender.

Brilliant conversationalists we weren't.

A convoy of police and ambulance vehicles arrived some time later. The fire crew and my bleary-eyed neighbors gave statements. Eddie mumbled something about heading to his girlfriend's and disappeared shortly after.

I caught Logan's eye as he and the rest of the fire crew started packing their gear back onto the engine.

"You got somewhere to be, right?" He worked a stick of gum into the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't look like you're getting your bed back tonight."

I wanted to thank him for the intelligent observation but held my tongue in place. "I'm crashing with a friend," I said. It was a half lie, I didn't know which friend yet.

"Good," Logan nodded. That was all he said before he hopped back onto the truck. We held each other's gazes and for just a tiny fraction of a microsecond, I felt how loaded the moment was, felt a measure of comfort from the way that man looked at me, this... solid, attractive, rugged-

Then he grinned and winked.

It was the cheesiest, smarmiest thing and it drove me  _nuts_. I watched him go until the truck disappeared around a corner, unable to decide if I had just encountered a decent, good ol' Irish boy (he did save my life and give me his jacket), or a transparently cocky son of a bitch. Perhaps, more realistically, Logan was both.

Pfft. Men.

I stared up at the fire-ruined husk of my former apartment building and tightened the rain jacket around my exposed, underwear-clad butt.

My name is Aiden Kashima. As you can see, my life is going just fine.


	2. A Matter of Taste

_Wednesday, May 24. 4:10 pm_.

Aiden Kashima's Temporary Place-to-Crash Wishlist:

  1. A kitchen that's at least big enough for me to comfortably lift both my arms
  2. Easy-going, laidback roommates who are either single or have silent lovers
  3. ...
  4. Yeah, that's pretty much it



I hope that list doesn't make me sound demanding or difficult. The only reason I'd like a decent-sized kitchen is so I can practice recipes for class, and the cook stations on campus get snatched up super quick this late in the semester. And I'm totally happy to crash on a couch.

The neighborhood community center set up a few dozen cots for those who were displaced by the fire, but I didn't feel comfortable taking one considering how many families and kids lived in my building. They deserved those beds more than I did.

I didn't have a ton of stuff in that apartment to begin with, though I did lose all the clothes I didn't have on my back that night. Double fun - I also have to re-buy the textbooks I lost. Triple fun - the pennies I make at my part-time job at Sweet Escape Bakery in the Distillery District wont really cover much.

I've had to remind myself a lot over the past several hours that I _chose_ to be a student at 26.

This morning, still barefoot and half-asleep, I hunkered down in a Starbucks and emailed my culinary instructors about the fairytale night I had to explain my absence. Thankfully, they're not assholes and they understood completely.

I tackled my temporary housing situation next. That came together a little more quickly than I expected, actually. After few unanswered calls and several flat-out rejections ("I don't really have the room right now but it really sucks what happened! Keep calm and carry on!") I found myself in the crowded bachelorette pad of my two Sweet Escape coworkers, Lola and Lilah.

Yes, they're twin sisters. Yes, they live together in what is generously called a studio apartment. Yes, they were the only people who willingly took me in.

Beggars can't be choosers, right?

"This is going to be so much fun," Lola clapped her hands together as I took in the small, one-room space for the first time.

" _So_ much fun!" Lilah agreed, her cherry lip gloss smile a mile wide.

While identical in their features, their hair made it easy to separate them. Lola's auburn locks were cut into a sharp Anna Wintour-like bob, while Lilah's was long, blonde and curled - and fixed together with a Coachella-ish flower crown. They were fun girls who I got along with at the bakery. I only needed to stay for a couple of weeks. What could go wrong?

Oh. I'm so glad I asked.

"We don't really have any furniture right now," Lilah started, "But if we push a few bankers boxes together, you can totally sleep on that."

"Totally!" Lola echoed. "And remember to keep your feet off the floor after 8 pm. That's when the rats kinda take over."

My eyebrows hit the ceiling. "When the _what_?"

"If you need to connect to WiFi, just try the Burger King downstairs. But it's not reliable."

" _So_ not reliable! Do you have a pair of noise canceling headphones by the way?" Lola asked innocently.

I was afraid to ask why.

"It's just for after midnight," Lilah explained, her tone light and casual. "That's usually when the couple next door has their screaming fights. The couple living above us save theirs for the morning. It's kinda like having an angry, muffled alarm clock."

Luckily, I wasn't near a reflective surface and thus I could not see own my skin turn grey. "How... nice."

The kitchen, they explained, was a communal space at the end of the hall that all their neighbors shared. I was right to dial my expectations down, as it wasn't so much a kitchen as a mini-fridge with a hot plate on top of it.

Lola hugged me tight, oblivious to the concern stretched tight across my face. "Oh, it's going to be like a sleepover every night! Like we're on _Girls_ and you're Elijah. I'm Jessa."

"No, dipstick, I'm Jessa," Lilah tapped her chest with a rose gold fingernail.

"You're Marnie. We talked about this."

"Um, on what planet? We both took that _Which Girls Character Are You_? quiz on PopViral at the same time."

"PopViral is bullshit, nobody even reads that site anymore!"

"You're just saying that because you don't want to be Marnie!"

You'd be surprised at how heated a conversation like this can get. Twenty minutes later, I certainly was.

Both girls had random pieces of clothing from their boyfriends lying around and they were nice enough to let me borrow a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. I told them I only needed it for the afternoon, just so I could go clothes shopping.

Unfortunately, they wanted to come with.

* * *

 _5:44 pm_.

I was holding a too-expensive long sleeved shirt in front of a mirror at H&M when Lilah appeared and took a long, scrutinizing look at me.

"I like this," she trilled. I thought she meant the shirt but she was tugging at the hem of my firefighter jacket. Hey, it was still a little cool out. And it was comfortable. Sue me! "It's so industrial chic. Is it like Backdraft cosplay for something?"

My face got warm. In the mirror it looked like I was wearing a beige tent. "It's from one of the firefighters last night. He let me have it."

Lilah pressed a hand against her heart. "Oh. My god. That is the most romantic thing. A firefighter? Tall, dark and handsome? Please say he was."

I fidgeted and tried to focus on how the new shirt would look on me. "It wasn't romantic. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was making fun of me."

"Aiden, he rescued you then gave you his _jacket_. That's like how all erotic novels start." She peered at the name tag stitched over the chest. "Logan O'Donoghue. Yum. Sounds like a sexy pirate."

"He's not a _sexy pirate_ and I wasn't interested, alright?"

Lilah sighed and rearranged her bangs in the mirror. "I bet he was interested in you, though. Who wouldn't be?"

"You don't have to say that, Lilah."

"No, seriously! Do you know how many girls come into Sweet Escape to ask for the number of the hot baker?"

My face got even warmer. I looked at the floor. "I hope you've been telling them to get their gaydars tuned."

Lilah sighed again. "So beautiful and yet so unaware." She headed back to the women's department where her sister was driving a sales associate crazy.

I turned back to my reflection. _Would_ Logan be interested? If he was actually gay I couldn't see myself being his type. Not that I thought I was an ogre or anything. My dad is Japanese Canadian and (everyone's always surprised when they hear this) a former male model. I inherited his high cheek bones, straight nose, midnight black hair and lightning fast metabolism. My mother is French Canadian, a sturdy farm-raised woman. I have her somewhat ruddy skin tone, full red lips and amber eyes. I've been told that my dimpled smile is all hers, while my frown is most definitely my father's.

I've had my share of dates but I never got much attention from the chest-beating alpha male segment of Toronto's gay community. I think they think I'm too delicate for them? Not burly or macho enough? Whatever. Never thought to ask, not interested in finding out.

Not long after I decided I wanted the shirt, I felt something buzz against the side of my chest. My cell? No, that was in my other hand. Confused, I zipped the jacket open and discovered an Android phone in the breast pocket. I brought the screen to life and immediately knew it was Logan's.

For one thing, his phone background was a picture of himself. Because of course it was.

Logan had a long list of unread text messages waiting, all male names. They were probably his fellow fire crew. I turned the screen off, not wanting to be nosy. I might not have been sold on Logan's personality but that didn't mean I wanted to be a jerk. And he did happen to save my life the other night - it was probably bad karma to snoop.

I looked at my shopping basket full of socks and underwear and sighed. Looks like I'd have to pay my savior a little visit.

* * *

_8:56 pm._

Not to sound like a stalker, but it doesn't take much more than 30 seconds and a WiFi connection to find someone these days. Especially if your target - I mean, _person_ \- happens to work in public service.

I managed to shrug off Lola and Lilah for the evening and set forth toward Toronto Fire Station 426, which according to Google Maps is on the border of Roncesvalles and Parkdale. The twins were a little curious as to why I dressed like I was going on a date (Which I'm totally not! I just wanted to look nice after nearly dying from smoke inhalation last night, is that so wrong?). I managed to distract them by inciting another _Girls_ argument and slipped out of their studio apartment, quiet as the mouse I saw burrowing into one of the floorboards.

Fire Station 426 didn't seem like much of a fire station at all. If anything it was like the largest house in a charming old time-y village, with old brick walls, a slanted roof and quaint round windows. If the exterior hadn't featured that bright red fire engine parked on a driveway the size of a small field, I'd have walked right passed it like an idiot.

I pushed through the front doors and... I guess I was expecting to see a reception desk or something, but instead I found myself in the station's garage, a mammoth open space that smelled faintly like gasoline. To my surprise, a couple of men were working on a red van. One of them was shirtless, his well-defined and tattooed chest streaked dark with motor oil. The second man wore a tight, grey undershirt that struggled to contain the rippled gym body and thick chest hair inside it.

Heat slid low into my body. God damn.

The tattooed man saw me first. He had a shock of silver hair - not naturally silver, but the trendier dyed version. I have to admit it suited his face, which was all brooding sharp angles like he'd just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. "Can we help you?"

"I'm looking for a... a... firefighter?" I knew it sounded stupid even as I was saying it.

The tattooed man chuckled and cleaned his hands on a rag. "Well, you just found a couple of 'em."

"You in trouble, son?" The man in the grey tank top closed the hood of the van and narrowed his eyes in concern. He was the older of the two, forty-ish, with a grizzled Hugh Jackman quality to him.

Shit. Was every firefighter in this station a hunk? They probably had one hell of a charity calendar.

"N-no, sir." The man in the tank top had an effortlessly authoritative quality to him and I didn't want to sound too informal. "Does a Logan O'Donoghue work here?"

Both men exchanged a knowing look.

"Logan works here alright." The tattooed man's lips creased into a grin. His eyes trailed down my body like I was up for auction. "Let me guess, he left something at your place the other night?"

My face flared with color.

"Silas," the man in the tank top said with a measure of command, "Why don't you get showered up? We'll finish the van tomorrow."

"Yes, chief."

Seriously? Grey tank top man was _chief_? I always imagined fire station chiefs as old, pot-bellied curmudgeons. The tattooed firefighter Silas headed for the exit and saluted us goodbye, his oily torso highlighted rather delectably in the garage light. My chin dipped and I forced myself to look away.

Do not eat the eye candy.

The chief reached for a work shirt hanging next to the van and pulled it on. "Sorry, what did you say your name was, son?"

"Oh, I didn't. I'm Aiden."

"Fire Chief Warren Redfield." He shook my hand and smiled, brief but genuine. "Nice to meet you, Aiden. Now, what's this business you have with O'Donoghue?"

I thought about what the EMT told me the other night, how the chief threatened Logan with suspension if he ever flirted on a call. Snitching on him would have been so damn easy. But - _sigh_ \- I made a promise that I wouldn't be a jerk. A loose promise, but a promise all the same.

"I just wanted to return this to him." I handed Warren the Android phone. "I made it out of the fire at 1678 Lansdowne Avenue last night. I was, um, a little shaken and Logan calmed me down by giving me his jacket." (I'm getting pretty good at those little half-lies, aren't I?) "His phone was still inside it."

Warren studied the device then looked back at me. His features were handsome but rather haunted. You could tell he'd seen his share of traumatic things during his career that left a permanent shadow across his face. A hard man, but strangely vulnerable too. I resisted the urge to give him a hug.

"That's awfully considerate of you, Aiden."

I shrugged. "Definitely not as considerate as what your crew did last night, honestly. I just wanted to be a good citizen."

"I know Logan will appreciate it. It's actually his day off today."

"Oh," I tried not to sound disappointed. Because... you know... I wasn't.

Warren finished buttoning up his work shirt. "I can let him know you dropped by."

"No, no. He probably wouldn't even remember me."

Was my face actually as red as I thought? Based on Warren's expression, I should have asked for a cold compress.

"Care to join me for a chat, son?" Warren gestured for me to join him at his desk in a small office off the garage. I suspected the chief was a modest man and his sparsely decorated office validated that. Other than a laptop and miniature Canadian flag, his desk was bare. A few impressive service medals hid on the lower rung of a small shelf.

"I'm very sorry about what happened to your building. My men did the best they could." Warren sat down and urged me to do the same. "Are you holding up okay at the community center?"

"I'm staying with a couple of coworkers, actually. I didn't want to take a cot away from one of the kids."

Warren nodded sadly. "That's always been one of the more difficult parts of this job, seeing so many people displaced by something that started as small as a kitchen fire."

I wondered if Mrs. Greenleaf from 5A was responsible. She'd fallen asleep with the iron on more than a dozen times since I started living above her.

Warren cleared his throat and leaned forward. "How are things working out at your coworkers' place? Comfortable there?"

"It's, uh. Um." I actually had to bite my lower lip to prevent my mouth from opening. Warren was a nice man and he didn't deserve the full brunt of my frustrations with Lilah and Lola's little studio from hell. I was wary, too, of sounding like some sort of high maintenance fop who couldn't function unless he was being pampered. That wasn't the case. Forget about the rats or the neighbors ripped from Jerry Springer. I just want a kitchen! I want to make a beautiful chocolate ganache cake with a mirror glaze! Or a nice, simple Swiss mousse. And I definitely need way more than a hot plate to whip up a batch of lemon coconut madeleines.

"It'll be an adjustment," I settled on telling him.

Warren's intelligent eyes searched my face. His phone rang before he could reply. "Excuse me." He took the call. "Chief here. Yeah? I- ah, Christ. I told you guys to clearly label the bags of your lunches _and_ dinners. There's masking tape and a marker by the plastic wrap." He hung up. "Sorry, there was a squabble in the kitchen. Doesn't fill me with pride to say my crew operates like a daycare when it comes to their food."

I frowned. "Why are your guys bringing in their meals? I thought firefighters were these awesome cooks who made huge dinners together?"

Warren sighed wearily and crossed his arms. "We really only had one guy on the crew who could put together some decent chow. Donny. He retired earlier this year so we've all been brown bagging it for the most part. The odd day someone will try to make chili or stew but it usually ends with a half-melted pot and a group of really cranky guys." He shrugged his large shoulders. "Real shame, too. Donny's meals brought everyone together and made us feel like a family. The crew's been a little disconnected since he left."

Did it get brighter in here? Wait, that was just the light bulb that went off above my head. I knew an opportunity when I saw one, no matter how unorthodox.

"So you guys need a cook," I said.

Warren looked at me. "I don't know if we _need_ one, but-"

Before I even knew what I was saying the words started to pour from my mouth. "But your guys feel more like a family when you have a nice big meal everyone can sit down to, right? I can bring that back! I could be your station's cook. I'm enrolled in culinary school with a focus on pastry and desserts but I can make anything because I've been cooking since I was a kid and I really need the kitchen space to study recipes for school and-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Warren's fingers gently tented his desk surface. "Let's back up here, son. I'm not looking to hire."

"I'm not looking to be paid!" I said a little too eagerly. "The only thing I ask in return is use of your kitchen and..." I trailed off, thinking of the impromptu cardboard box mattress waiting for me at Lola and Lilah's. "...and possibly, maybe, a bed? If you guys have one to spare? Maybe?" I swallowed hard. I was asking a lot of this poor guy and I'd only just met him. "I'm at the top of my program and I can get my instructors to write a letter of recommendation-"

Warren held up his hand to put me on pause. "Listen, Aiden. I like you. You seem like a sweet kid and you're going through a pretty tough situation that's beyond your control. Based on what I've learned about you tonight, I think you've got a lot of character." He sounded like a wise coach giving his rookie a game-changing pep talk. I liked it.

"Well, thank you sir."

"Warren, please."

"Warren," I nodded.

"But you have to understand that our station's never- in fact, I don't think any station in any fire department has ever had a live-in cook."

"I'd be in classes most of the day and I work at the Sweet Escape Bakery on weekends. You won't even know I'm here when I'm not cooking. I really think this would be an ideal situation for both of us."

God, how did something as simple as returning a man's phone become a spontaneous job interview? Have I ever been this pushy in my entire life? Hrm. Maybe that time I thought I flubbed my yeast and fermentation exam and showed up at my instructor's front door with two baskets of freshly baked focaccia bread with garlic rosemary butter.

(Passed that course with flying colors, by the way.)

"In all honesty," Warren said, "I actually think it's an idea with a lot of potential. But this sort of thing is really up to the guys. If they're not comfortable with it then it's not gonna fly."

The guys. Which included Logan. My stomach twisted and I tried not to let my discomfort show. I'd just have to cross that bridge when I came to it. "That's totally fair. I mean, I want your crew to know I can actually cook."

Another light bulb went off. Damn, it was getting pretty bright in here.

"Hey, why don't I make a trial meal for everyone? I'll come up with a menu for dinner and dessert which I'll cook in your kitchen and serve to your crew. I'll buy all the ingredients myself. If they don't like it, I'll walk."

Warren leaned back on his chair, his face set in deep concentration. "And if they do like it?"

I smiled. "Then your men have a new cook."

The chief pondered this for several moments. "Is tomorrow okay?"

I nearly slid off my chair. "So that's a yes?"

"It's a yes if my crew says it's a yes," Warren corrected. "Come 'round after 5 tomorrow, I'll show you the kitchen and introduce you to some of the guys. Sound good?" Warren stood and offered his hand.

I eagerly shook it. "I won't let your men down."

Warren smiled that brief smile again, impressed. "That's the spirit. In fact, it might actually be in your best interest to start buttering them up yourself." He handed me back Logan's phone. "Why don't you start with O'Donoghue? You've met him already, he's a real friendly guy. He's probably over at Brew Radley's right now. It's a sports bar over in Parkdale."

"Ah. Is that right," I struggled. My tentative alliance with the fire chief was something I appreciated - but if it meant socializing with someone who actively annoyed me...

As my grip on the Android phone tightened, so did my resolve. No, there was no way in hell I was going to see Logan in some random sports bar. No. Nope.

* * *

_9:27 pm._

Okay, I lied.

The thought of returning to Lola and Lilah's studio apartment from hell wasn't really as appealing as getting a drink.

Also, I decided that visiting Brew Radley's would function as a sort of test. If I could get through a drink with Logan and he wasn't a total ass then yeah, maybe I could actually deal with being in close quarters with him on a daily basis. I needed this to work because, well, I _needed_ his fire station's kitchen.

I entered Brew Radley's expecting scores of raucous men in baseball jerseys chugging beers and singing obnoxious fight songs, but the atmosphere was actually more subdued than that. A couple dozen men drank, played pool, and talked leisurely. A TV above the bar played basketball highlights with the sound off. Pretty chill, really.

My eyes followed a trail of the bar's only female patrons to a tall, well-built man wearing a fire department t-shirt stretched tight over his meaty pecs. Logan. The enthralled women circled him like lovesick vultures, chatting enthusiastically and vying for his attention. Logan was clearly having the time of his life, letting the girls feel his five-o-clock shadow, buying them shots and draping his thick, hairy arms over their delicate shoulders.

I ignored what felt like a very real flare of lust and envy at the pit of my stomach. I retrieved Logan's phone from my back pocket and reminded myself why I came in the first place. Would he even remember me? The man probably went home with a different man or woman (who really knew at this point?) every night and couldn't keep track of every young face he unleashed his so-called charm on.

A man sitting nearby got up from his chair the moment I decided to step toward Logan. Either I was too slow or the man was too fast, but before I knew it, my foot hooked around one the chair's legs and I started tumbling to the floor. I swear I fell in slow motion. A startled cry from one of Logan's female adorers slashed the air and the floor just got closer and closer, and then-

Someone grabbed my arms. I stopped, seemingly in mid-air, as my hands anchored against a man's chest. Registering warm skin and hard muscle beneath my palms, I looked up into Logan's daredevil eyes.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, my boy," he said with a crooked grin.

So he did remember me.

I stuttered an apology and found my footing again. A few of the women tittered amongst themselves, they probably thought I was drunk. "You can let go now," I said sheepishly.

Logan cocked his scarred eyebrow and released me from his grip. "This is starting to become a habit. Don't tell me you came all the way down here just so I could save you again."

I straightened out my shirt and handed him his phone. "Actually, you left this in the jacket you gave me."

"Ah. Cheers, lad. Been wondering where it's been." Logan accepted it and gave me an unnecessarily hard clap on the back. Seriously, it nearly brought me to the floor again. "Buy you a pint?"

I hesitated, but remembered my hypothesis. If I can get through a drink with him, I'll be able to cook for him. Right? "Okay, sure."

A bartender brought me a pint of something really dark and thick. Logan cleared a couple of bar stools for us as his dispersed fangirls shot me dirty looks. The Canadian in me wanted to apologize for breaking up the party but one sip of that sludgy stout made it nearly impossible to speak. Blergh.

"Not much of a drinker, eh?" Logan held back a chuckle. "What's your name?"

"Aiden," I said, forcing the liquid down my throat.

" _Aiden_. Ah, lovely. You're not Irish, are you? You don't exactly look like you're from my side of the pond."

Urgh. Unnecessary comment about my ethnicity. Big pet peeve. But I had to keep playing along for the sake of my sanity. "My mom's French and my dad is Japanese."

Logan's grey eyes went wide. "No shit, that's quite a combination."

"A bad combination?" I lifted an eyebrow, challenging him.

Logan took a drink. "Looks pretty good from where I'm sitting."

Something brushed against my foot. I jerked away, spilling beer onto my fingers. Logan threw his head back and laughed. "Calm down. That was just my foot, it was an accident." He grabbed a wad of napkins and helped me clean up. "You really need to relax."

"I'm relaxed," I said in the most unrelaxed way a person could. "There's just... a lot on my mind right now."

Logan's grin shrank. "Yeah, I suppose there would be. How are you holding up from last night, by the way?"

"I'm doing okay."

"Just okay?"

My mouth parted slightly as I tried to figure out how to respond. Logan's attention went to my lips, caught in a semi-pout. I swear his face went flush with lust.

"Logan?"

"Yes, lad?"

"Distracted by something?"

Logan's eyes dashed back to his beer. "Nope." Hah. It felt good to catch him. "But seriously, Aiden, how are you getting on?"

"I'm staying with a couple of coworkers but it doesn't really... seem great, if I'm being honest."

Logan took another drink. "Not an ideal living situation?"

"Not by a long shot. It's the three of us in a room the size of a closet. Plus rats. Plus very thin walls. I actually thought it would be a good idea if I-" I hesitated again. Did I want to tell Logan about my plan to be his station's cook so soon?

After taking a big, unpleasant gulp of beer I decided- hey, fuck it, might as well stop beating around the bush.

I told Logan everything: about being enrolled in culinary school, Chief Warren telling me about the void that their former cook/firefighter Donny had left, me offering my services in exchange for the kitchen space and a bed to crash on, the trial dinner I would be making tomorrow for his crew.

Logan listened without much emotion but when I finished, he burst into laughter. Right in my face! His laughs were just like him, booming and boisterous. I stared, wondering what the hell was so funny.

"Sorry," he finally said, his face red, his breathing fast, "Sorry, I just- a cook? You want to cook for us? For no money?"

My jaw closed and I found myself speaking through gritted teeth. "The money doesn't matter, I just need a place to sleep and study."

"Gotta tell ya, Aiden, we're some tough sons of bitches and I don't think someone like you would know the first thing about impressing us. Fancy frou-frou _haute cuisine_ or whatever you're being taught is gonna get you laughed out the station."

Don't let him get to you, I told myself. Stick to your guns. "Considering what your chief said about everyone brown bagging their lunches, I think you guys will be more than happy with what I can do."

"Is that so?" Logan chuckled and finished off his pint. When he spoke again it was a little looser, a little tipsier. "You want to know what I think of this lil' plan of yours?"

"Oh good," I said flatly. "I was hoping you'd share."

Logan beckoned me to lean closer. Because I'm an idiot and he wasn't all that bad to look at, I did. His mouth moved dangerously close to my ear for the second time in less than 24 hours. I smelled cologne and Guinness on him.

"I think," he began, "that you're a wee bit lonely. Ain't ya?"

My face tightened. I pulled away, glaring. "Excuse me?"

"I'm real good at reading others. My mam says I have a talent for it. And I had you pegged the moment I first saw you."

"And you pegged me as _lonely_?" I was offended, but a distant pang in my heart agreed with his assessment.

Logan signaled the bartender for another pint, completely oblivious to the emotional sucker punch he just threw. "Either that or you've got a raging crush on me. You don't need to play pretend chef to steal my heart, Aiden. A good old fashioned blowjob would do the trick."

I rose from my bar stool. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Aw, come on, I'm just takin' the piss. No need to be so sensitive."

I didn't bother with a goodbye. I started toward the exit but felt Logan's beefy hand take my wrist.

"Lad, come on. You barely touched your drink."

You know that urban legend about the mother who could summon superhuman strength to lift the car off her trapped kid? What I did next was... not... anything... remotely like that.

"You want me to finish this?" I raised the disgusting glass of dark slop to the air with not a small amount of self-righteousness. "Fine. I'll finish it!"

And then I chugged the entire god damn pint. Right then and there in big sloppy gulps. Why? Was I making a point? Was I standing up for something I believed in?

No.

Pretty sure I just wanted to be a jerk. I'd been holding it back all night and now it was set free, my inner jerk for the entire world (or at least the entire bar) to gawk at, guzzling frothy stout like a wild-eyed animal.

My liver is going to kill me.

* * *

It might not surprise you to hear that I have the alcohol tolerance level of a malnourished pre-teen. The beer didn't hit me until I stepped out of Brew Radley's and into the cool night air of Queen Street West, and boy, did it hit me _hard_.

My sense of equilibrium blurred into a drowsy watercolor painting, the kind with too many smudges and broad strokes. I started to negotiate just how hard of a hit my pride would take if I unloaded the contents of my stomach onto the sidewalk when Logan came out of the bar.

"No," I said in his vague direction. "No more talking. I'm done talking to you."

"Aiden." His voice actually had a hint of concern. "Are you okay?"

"I am just _dandy_." I would have looked and sounded more convincing if I wasn't bent in a 90 degree angle while anchoring myself against a street lamp. I think.

Logan sighed and knelled next to me. Although the angle was awkward I could still clearly see his intense, rugged face. His expression was oddly solemn. "I'm gonna call you an Uber, alright?"

"No!" Being in a car while drunk always made me vomit. I stood, shakily. "I just gotta walk it off. I live..." I gestured around me in several directions at once. "...around... somewhere. I mean-" I laughed, in the broad and careless way that drunk people do when they catch themselves making a mistake. "-I mean _I_ don't live around here. I don't have a home! I'm gonna sleep on cardboard with twins. Girl twins."

Logan stared at me like I was dancing along the edge of a very tall building. "You're not going on foot. That's not happening."

"Sure I am."

"No offense, but even before the drink you could barely walk in a straight line without tripping. I'd really feel more comfortable if I made sure you got home safe." Logan pulled on the jacket he'd been clutching at his side.

"Didn'tyouhearme?" I slurred. "Idont _have_ ahome."

"But you do have a temporary one, lad, and I'm making sure you get there. It's a rough neighborhood, you know."

Parkdale did get a little sketchy at night, I had to admit. I eased off the street lamp and took a few shaky steps on my own. Logan closed in and I instinctively leaned against him. We walked like this down the street. I'm sure I looked just as stupid as I felt.

Even for a late May night it was a little chilly. As I shivered, Logan wrapped an arm around my shoulder and warmed my cold skin beneath him. The weird thing? I don't think he was trying to be fresh. The weirder thing? I didn't mind it. I actually... really liked it. I found myself leaning into him and craving his closeness, his warmth.

His touch...

Lilah and Lola's studio was only a few blocks away. If I was in my right mind I'd have been able to get home in ten minutes. In reality, I swear it took a damn hour. The bachelorette studio was on the fourth floor of a crumbling building with no elevator. Thank god for Logan's firefighter training because I don't know how I'd have hauled my ass up those stairs otherwise.

By the time we reached the fourth floor I was no longer moving independently. It would be more accurate to say that Logan was dragging me along the floor like a toddler who stayed up way passed his bed time.

Did I mention I'm a total fucking lightweight?

"Alright my boy, what's your door number?" Logan asked. If he was at all bothered or annoyed by my slobbering state of being, he certainly didn't show it.

I raised a finger toward the door at the end of the hall. Logan and I reached it with some effort and, after several dozen tries, I managed to get the right key in the lock. "God," I groaned. "I don't want to go in."

"How come?"

I edged the door open a crack and a rat the size of a Yorkshire Terrier shot out from the studio and scampered down the hall. Logan gave a start.

"Jesus," he cried. "I guess that's why, huh?"

I laughed. I couldn't help it - this was all so ridiculous. "I know what you're thinking," I hiccuped, "What's a place like me doing in a boy like this?"

Logan, to his credit, didn't try to correct me. Even though the world spun around me at an alarming pace, I could still see him with perfect clarity. Up close, he was all jaw and stubble, a man carved from marble. His chocolate brown hair had been neatly combed at the beginning of the night, but with the strain of lugging me around, it now fell in a disheveled wave over his concerned eyes.

"Aiden, I can't lie to you, this place put the heart crossway in me. I'm going to propose something and you have every right to call me a gobshite for suggesting it."

"You're _not_ getting that blowjob... perv," I laughed, ignoring his serious tone.

Logan took a gander at the mold stains that decorated the corridor's crumbling walls. "Listen- if you want, you can crash at my place for the night. No funny business, you take my bed and I'll sleep on the couch."

Record scratch. (How do you put a record scratch noise in writing? Hell if I know.)

The earnestness of his suggestion was enough to sober me up a small amount. "Sleep on your bed?"

"I wouldn't be on it, if that's what you're worried about. It's not exactly a Hilton executive suite, but compared to this place-" He stopped himself, probably to spare my feelings. "It's up to you, lad."

God. How did my night turn into this?

"Logan," I started before I really knew what I wanted to say.

"Yeah?"

My voice dropped to a whisper. "I think you were right. I am lonely."

Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? A hard lump formed at the base of my throat. I was never that nakedly honest with anyone, let alone someone like Logan who just an hour ago had laughed at my ambitions right to my face. But he was being so delicate with me now, so... protective... and it was opening up something inside me that I never knew existed.

I wasn't sure how Logan was reacting to my confession but I could tell a few emotions shuffled back and forth behind his fierce eyes.

My hands closed around his supporting arm. I needed to say something, anything, before he could respond. "Can we just get out of here, please?"

* * *

_11 pm. Or midnight. I think?_

Couldn't give you a description of Logan's apartment even if I tried. It was one muddy blur from the front door to his bedroom, where Logan gently laid me onto a fleece comforter and helped me out of my jacket and shoes. His bed smelled like fresh laundry. Mmm.

He set an empty trash bin lined with a plastic bag next to the bed and told me to aim in that direction if I needed to hurl. I murmured a thank you and felt his body leave the bed.

"I'll be on the couch if you need me," he said. "Just give a shout."

"Logan," I called into the darkness. He paused at the doorway. "Are you a jerk or not? I can't tell anymore."

He chuckled. "Maybe you'll get a chance to find out, lad."

I closed my eyes, praying the dizziness would stop soon. Logan padded into the living room. "Goodnight Aiden."

"Night..."

I turned on my side and wrapped the comforter around me. Before I surrendered to a long, drunken sleep, I thought of the meal I wanted to make for Logan and the rest of the fire crew tomorrow night. It didn't seem like such a daunting task anymore.


	3. If You Can't Stand the Heat

_Thursday, May 25. 7:12 am._

You're expecting me to wake up with a hangover, aren't you? Bet you're expecting paragraphs of tortured prose describing the erupting volcano that is my skull, the abject misery of morning-after dehydration, the spinning rooms and tilting floors and oh god make it stop I have to puke. 

I'm not going to indulge you, you sadist. But know this: I was begging for something as sweet and pleasant as the above paragraph in comparison to how bad my hangover actually was. Are you happy now? Are you not entertained?

I stumbled out of Logan's bedroom, blinking sleep and pain from my eyes. The curtains were drawn and sunlight spilled into what was definitely a single man's apartment. A sofa, a bare coffee table, and a mostly empty Ikea shelving unit supporting a huge 4K TV were the only notable pieces of furniture. Didn't seem like Logan spent much time here. 

"And my prince awakens," a man's voice called from the kitchen. 

I turned, smelling coffee. While I was still in my disheveled clothes from the night before, Logan stood by the coffee pot wearing only red plaid boxers. He was hairier than I expected, with dark fur matting his broad chest and rippled, defined stomach. His legs were thick with muscles, strong and hairy. His whole body spoke of a man who worked himself hard. The sight was intoxicating - I found myself both desperate to look away and eager to absorb it all at once.

Logan handed me a mug, too preoccupied with his own early morning drowsiness to notice my beet-red face. His sleep-rumpled hair was a mess across his tanned forehead. Dare I say, it was a pretty adorable look. 

"Last night might've been the first time in my storied history that I brought home someone and didn't sleep next to 'em."

I tried to say something but it came out as a labored croak. 

"May I risk asking how the prince is feeling this morning?" His accent sounded stronger than than it had last night. I think, maybe, his guard had been up around me. Strange, considering just how tall of a fortress I had built around myself to deal with him. We have different ways of protecting ourselves, I guess. 

(Mine just so happened to be getting blackout drunk.)

"I'm..." I sipped the coffee. Strong and rich with notes of cocoa and dark cherry. Just what I needed. "...alive. Barely."

Through the bleariness of the miserable morning air, Logan smiled. Slow yet eager, the grin of a pirate stumbling across a hidden cache of golden coins. I couldn't help but notice his stubble, which was black with a hint of silver around the edges of his jaw. I wondered briefly what it would feel like against my own skin. I bet it scratched.

_Nope. Stop. Return those thoughts to sender. Please and thank you._

I took a seat by the kitchen bar counter and drank coffee with him in silence. I thought Logan would be avoiding my gaze but he was... staring. Or examining. Something between concern and wonder guiding his eyes. Why wasn't I uncomfortable? Why didn't I want to look away?

Every time I tried to say something, I stuffed it back down inside me. Reliving last night made me want to yak even more than that horrible beer did. I cringed thinking about my pathetic, drunken confession, how I told him, yeah, you're right! I'm totally lonely! It's to Logan's credit that he didn't laugh in my face right then and there. 

And then the silence seemed unbearable.

"Thank you," I finally managed. 

"For what?"

He was really going to make me say it, huh? "For last night."

"It's nothing." He scratched his chest hair. The sound it made against his fingers tickled me. Scrrchhh scrrchhh scrrchhh.

"No, really. You could have just left me back at Lola and Lilah's. Or even just dumped me on the street, which would have been less of a health hazard."

"I was being an asshole. Was a bit nervous. Tried a little too hard not to let it show."

"What did you have to be nervous about?"

Logan seemed very interested in the contents of his coffee mug all of a sudden. "Ever look in a mirror?"

Heat rose in my stomach and into my chest. I channeled all effort into keeping my pulse from pitching a fit in my veins. I matched his smile - or tried to, anyway - and played it off with a laugh."At least wait until the coffee sets in before you make fun of me, dude."

Logan looked up, unsure what to say. I know a bullshitter when I see one, but... just how sincere was this man being? The thought that his flirtations could actually be serious made the room spin.  Or maybe that was the hangover.

He turned to the oven and started arranging dishes and pans, his muscular back flexing with effort. "How about some french toast to go with your misery?" Logan broke a couple of eggs into a bowl and added a dash of milk. As he whisked he shot me a quick, playful wink. "My nan says it's best hangover cure. Swears by it."

"I don't think a man's ever made me breakfast before."

"Sounds like you don't meet too many men of high moral character."

"And you're a man of high moral character, are you?"

"The highest. The moral-est. Don't I seem trustworthy?" 

"Hard pass on that question."

He cried out, mimicking a stab to the heart. "So pretty but so cruel."

"Are you adding anything else to the batter?"

"I've got some cinnamon."

"That's a good start, but I think I can make it even better."

"You dare challenge a man in his boxers making you breakfast?"

"I dare! I dare so hard."

"Watch yourself, Iron Chef Junior. French toast doesn't need any  bells and whistles to taste good. Eggs and milk, a little cinnamon. Been doing it this way my whole life."

"You sound incredibly sure of yourself."

"Didn't become a firefighter by being unsure."

I joined him by the oven, hands on my hips. "Tell you what. We'll have a little taste test."

"Oh? Thought you'd never ask."  
    
He started toward me in the playful, exaggerated way a teenager would approach his first kiss. I held him back, laughing despite myself. Barely eight hours ago I wanted to throttle this guy. My hangover must have been interfering with the part of my brain that couldn't stand him.

"I mean a french toast taste test, you cartoon skunk."

"Boo."

"Hear me out. You make it your way, I'll make it mine, then you'll try both. If you still think your french toast is better, I will concede defeat. But if your taste buds are as high functioning as your smart-ass mouth seems to be-"

He laughed at this.

"-and you agree that my recipe is better, then I win."

"What happens if you win?"

I took in the sight of him, bare chest, plaid boxers, hairy legs and all. "You know that dinner I'm making at your firehouse tonight? You have to attend it wearing only what you've got on now."

"Damn. So in other words, 'bring it on, bitch'?"

"If you're man enough."

"Wait, how do you know I'll judge fairly? What if I say I like my french toast better just to see you lose?"

I pressed a finger to his hairy chest, upping the ante. "Didn't you say you were trustworthy? A man of high morals?"

Our eyes locked, his gaze smokey and intense in the morning light. He hooked his thumb around my finger but didn't move it. It felt like a silent promise, forged in a language only the two of us could understand. 

"Guess I don't have a choice but to be honest, huh?"

"Not unless last night's chivalry was a one-time deal."

"It wasn't."

"So prove it."

I knew a man like him couldn't resist a challenge.   
 

* * *

  
_8:35 am_

For a bachelor, Logan's kitchen was surprisingly well-stocked. It just happened to be tiny as hell.

The two of us jostled for space as we prepared our separate dishes. He was a big man and I found myself crashing into him constantly. An errant elbow to the chest, a bare foot bumping into another bare foot. After a while it all just stopped seeming accidental. I was actually having fun. Yes, grouchy ol' me. Other news from that day: pigs took flight and the citizens of Hell felt a bit of a chill.

Logan stuck with his tried and true recipe and finished it off with a helping of maple syrup. I made good use of his pantry for my batter: pure vanilla extract, nutmeg, cinnamon, a dash of sugar, a pinch of salt. And then my secret weapon.

Orange zest. Really. It sounds simple but it makes a world of difference. Try it!

Whistling, I grated a teaspoon of zest into my batter. The scent made my nostrils tingle. Fuck, I love that smell. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Logan staring. 

"You get a hell of a fightface on when you cook."

"How scary do I look?"

"I didn't say you looked scary. I've carried training dummies heavier than you."

"And how often do you carry around guys my size?"

The question escaped my lips before I realized what it could imply. I knew next to nothing about Logan's dating life or where his preferences laid. Yeah, he was a huge flirt. But so were a lot of guys I knew! Some men are just more playful than others. 'Playful', more often than not, is where it begins and ends. Trust me on this. 

One of his dark brows arched upward. "Not nearly as often as I'd like to."

"Huh," I grunted - quite eloquently, too - as an unexpected heat sparked deep inside me. Before I had a chance to take our exchange to the next level, my nose caught a wisp of something burning.  _Smoke_.

"Shit!" My hands scrambled to turn down the stovetop heat. I'd neglected to keep an eye on my pan and now one side of my toast was scorched.  _That's a D- minus sear_ , the voice of my culinary skills professor nagged. 

Logan's guffaws boomed through the kitchen. "Your toast is no match for the distraction of my rugged good looks."

"Funny."

"No, my prince, not funny." He tapped the side of his head, "Strategic."

I'm used to fucking up dishes, believe it or not, but I wasn't used to fucking up in front of a gorgeous man in his underwear. Working quickly and silently to conceal my embarrassment, I redid a batch of toast, drizzled it with syrup and topped it with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar. Upon setting the plate in front of Logan, he gave me a generous but not entirely unsarcastic round of applause. 

"You've come a long way this morning, lad."

"Surviving a night with you has taught me a lot about adversity." I patted his arm. The muscles beneath my palm didn't go unnoticed. "Bon appétit."

As he eyed the dish suspiciously, I went to check my phone and was briefly alarmed to find it wasn't in my back pocket.

"I think I left my phone on your bed, I'm just gonna grab it."

"Sure."

"Don't finish the taste test without me."

"No promises, lad."

In Logan's room, I found my phone in the tidal wave of blankets I'd left behind. Not wanting to be a sloppy guest, I straightened the bed and refluffed the pillow where I'd left an imprint of my drunken, sleeping face. I was ready to leave when something on the nightstand caught my eye. 

A framed photo of Logan and another man. 

I'll admit, I was being nosy. Curiosity is a needy beast. I grabbed the picture to take a closer look. Logan was few years younger, hair shorter and his face smooth, clean-shaven. I'd never seen him without scruff before. Strange.

His arm was slung over the shoulders of someone young enough to be a teenager, or at least in his very early 20s. The second man was handsome, strikingly so, yet baby-faced enough to have probably been teased for it. They were both caught in mid-laugh, mouths agape and eyes lit with a joy that seemed so... so...  _unattainable_. Had I ever been this happy with someone before?

Would I ever be?

Logan appeared at the doorway. He was in the middle of wiping syrup off his mouth. Startled, I jumped.

"Aiden. Find your phone?" His eyes lilted to the photo. 

"I - yeah. Sorry. I was curious what you looked like without a beard." (Lame. Bad.) I handed it back as quickly as I could.

"Yeah, well." He scanned the image with a quiet thoughtfulness I hadn't seen from him before. "You weren't missing much."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's okay."

"It was rude of me."

"Forget it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good."

Oh, this was awful. 

Desperate to change the subject, I noticed the empty plates in the kitchen just over his considerable shoulder. "Too hungry to wait for me, I take it?" 

"What can I say, lad. I've got an appetite. Nothing can get in the way."

"Then what's the verdict? Your dish or mine?"

His shoulders lowered and his ruddy cheeks actually seemed to darken. "Remember what I said about being a trustworthy man?"

"I remember you  _claiming_ to be a trustworthy man, yes."

"Well, I'm invoking that claim now. Your french toast was better. And I mean miles and miles ahead of mine."

"Aha!" Victory escaped my lips before humility could tamp it down. I stopped just short of raising my arms skyward like Sly Stallone climbing those museum steps. "You know what that means, buddy."

"Yeah, yeah. Undies at dinner. You knew you'd win, you just wanted to see me in my boxers again."

 "You are so wrong." (He was totally right.) "But if you're gonna be a sore loser, I have an addendum to my victory demands."

"Oh?"

"None of your barbed insults while I'm in the firehouse kitchen, okay? I'm making dinner for you and your crew. I respect you guys and everything you do. So please respect me."

He nodded. "Alright. That's fair. But you've got to make sure you're up to the task. Most of these guys are from farms and old coal towns. I know them like brothers. They were raised on meat and potatoes. They like functional over fancy. So if you're really gunning for this job-" 

"Bed," I corrected him. "I'm only asking for a bed." 

"-then you've got to keep that in mind. That's all I meant the other night."

"You're not one to phrase things delicately, are you?"

He set the photo frame back on his nightstand. "I've never been a delicate man."

"Yet another thing you and I don't have in common."

His faint smile matched my equally faint joke. I wondered if he felt as strange as I suddenly did, slivers of unease sticking between my ribs. But Logan's expression simply idled in neutral, his opaque grey stare cool enough to still the words in my throat. 

"I'm gonna be late for my shift," he finally said, grabbing a pair of pants from his dresser. "You got somewhere to be today?"

I hadn't been to class since my apartment was flambéed. He agreed to give me a lift to campus on his way to the firehouse. 

We didn't really say much of anything once we got into his car. Certainly nothing about that framed photo, who that young man was, or why looking at it managed to soften Logan's rough edges, if only for a moment. Nope. That was his business. Not mine.

(...but really, wouldn't you find it hard not to think about? Was it Logan's friend, a coworker, a... boyfriend? Hah. That's laughable. Not because it was another man, but because it was hard to believe Logan was capable of anything resembling a commitment.)

(To reiterate: this is totally none of my business.)

Once we arrived on campus he dropped me off at the student parking lot. "Go give 'em hell today, my prince."

"That's starting to sound suspiciously like a nickname, Logan."

"Does it?" His cocky grin returned. "I've got a nickname for all my morning after guests."

"Do not go any further than that, I beg you."

"We've only spent one night together and I've already got you begging."

"Oh, god."

He laughed. To my surprise, I joined him. 

"If I'm your prince, what does that make you?"

Logan pondered, stroking his square jaw. "Suppose that would make me your knight, wouldn't it? Escorting you safely back to your castle."

I grimaced. "Please."

"You love it."

"You're out of your mind."

"Did I not come to your rescue?"

I couldn't really argue that. Instead, I gathered my stuff and thanked him again for all his help.

"You're sure you're ready for tonight?" he asked as I left his car. "Remember, my dudes will be tough on you."

"So let them be tough. I can take it."

I didn't have a choice but to impress Logan's firehouse if I wanted to become their live-in cook. The alternative - a cardboard bed on Lola and Lilah's floor - was too depressing to consider.

We said our goodbyes. Casual and quick. As he drove off I caught his face in the rear view mirror, looking every bit like a man capable of breaking anyone's heart. 

 _But not mine_ , I told myself as he disappeared down the road. I avoided my reflection on the way into campus, rejecting any visual proof that I was lying to myself, not wanting to catch the dumb grin on my face.  
 

* * *

  
_12:01 pm_

Aiden Kashima's pretentious as fuck dinner menu for the fine men of Toronto Fire Station 426:  
 

   1. Boeuf bourguignon with pinot noir  
   2. Green beans almondine  
   3. Goat cheese, beet and arugula salad with candied walnuts and a dark raspberry vinaigrette   
   4. Herbes de Provence potatoes with lemon and sea salt  
   5. Dark chocolate crème de cassis cake with a chocolate mirror glaze

  
Aiden Kashima's down-to-earth, hearty, blue collar dinner menu for the fine men of Toronto Fire Station 426:  
 

1.    Beef stew  
2.    Green beans and almonds  
3.    Salad  
4.    Potato wedges  
5.    Cake

  
Yes, they're the same damn menu. 'Fancy' is only a matter of perspective. The second menu will be the one pitched to Logan's crew, the first will only serve as my own reference. I've spent the better part of this morning's classes writing and rewriting the crew's dinner, refining as necessary, ensuring everything paired and complemented each other. I'm taking this as seriously as any assignment or exam. I want these guys to have a good meal. They deserve it. 

And, I admit... I want them to like me, too. 

Blowing out a hard exhale, I closed my notebooks and joined my classmates at the cook stations for a quick lunch of teriyaki salmon with broccoli sauté. I made small talk with them, exchanging quips about cooking oil preferences (I maintain that anyone who even mentions soybean oil in class should be expelled), but my mind was still on the firefighter crew. Rather, one particular firefighter.

I had fun cooking next to Logan this morning, but shit, I've never burned french toast before. There's no use denying it: I was distracted by him. He's a distraction! A big, infuriating, confusing, hairy distraction. He even admitted to doing it on purpose! Shit. I can't repeat that mistake tonight. That would be a disaster. 

Yet I can still hear his deep, confident voice in my head. " _My prince_."

My stomach turned to iron as I sautéed the broccoli in olive oil and garlic. I hoped Logan never noticed my reaction when he called me that, how my breath escaped me, how I found myself at the mercy of the slow, easy grin on his chiseled face. 

Ah. Damn it. 

Something tells me I'll be in trouble tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews appreciated!


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